The Saints Can't Help Me Now
by burningjackets
Summary: A disease has ravaged the world, and John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Rory Williams are trying to find a cure. They come across a man named the Doctor, almost dead, and lots of angsty romance stuff happens on the way to a cure.
1. Chapter 1

The first outbreak of disease took place in the middle of America; perhaps Idaho, or Montana, John could never quite remember. It was a marvel to scientists everywhere, a strain of disease that was completely potent and dangerous, yet only killed when it felt like it, almost like it had a brain of its own, a microscopic bundle of nerves that was sophisticated enough to make the tiny organism able to kill _only when it felt like it._

The scientific community fell to its knees at this discovery, every one wanting a mere slide of this amazing new organism, but a small shipment broke apart, and the disease went on a killing rampage, killing every person in that small mail office in that small American town in the middle of nowhere.

It mutated and, instead of becoming tired out at all this killing and multiplying, it grew increasingly violent, now choosing to be transferred through blood. Bites from anyone and anything proved a death wish, and false vaccines were put up on the market, making the desperate infected clamber for any hope they got in this disease ridden America they found themselves in.

Finally, someone got hold of a dead specimen and did extensive research on it, pulling it apart and putting it back together. It was named after the one who found a vaccine to this terror. It was named moriartiphigys, or the Moriarty Virus.

He soon disappeared off the planet, right before the disease mutated and his vaccine proved worthless. America was threatened again, and so was the rest of the world. Canada was relatively left along, it apparently disliked cold, and Britain was too; along with Greenland, Antarctica, and a bit of Russia.

Every place was decimated quickly, and the few that survived migrated upwards, towards the cold and ice, away from the dangers of heat.

The whole population went down quickly, the symptoms of this disease mild enough to not kick in until the person had been fraternizing with other people, giving it a chance to procreate. Since blood was the only way it was transferred, the government of every country made it possible to buy "disease-proof glass." It worked, for a bit, but it wouldn't work forever.

The worst part of this disease is that it makes the humans do things they wouldn't do, maybe kiss a girl if they were gay, maybe eat a strawberry if they were allergic. It was tame, but it soon evolved, as all things must, into killing people in cold blood.

Guns were provided to everyone, every male and female with any chance of surviving. People in every Army were sent home to protect their loved ones, and people formed small groups to survive. Fortunately, the disease seemed to have no predilection for human food, and left it well enough alone, leaving ice cream to defrost slowly and the lettuce to wilt in between raids.

Now, we go to a small threshold in the middle of disease-ridden London, (they always knew that they would never be safe forever in the cold) where three shivering men lay in a garage, heating up small amounts of tea.

One of the men was John Watson, a small, unassuming blond man who was deported from the Army when he got shot in the shoulder. He had since moved in with Sherlock Holmes, a slender, dark haired man whose posture and glare made him seem like some kind of royalty. He would assure you, complete with a scathing remark about your intellect, that he was not, and probably bring up something about your parents splitting or your cheating on your significant other. He was always quite in love with John, but, being oblivious, John had not noticed, for he was too busy with other things, namely his war-buddy, Rory Williams, a doctor that he had known briefly before being sent home. He had been sent home for the disease, the prevention of it, and was working on finding a vaccine when his compound got busted and he had gone looking for a place to stay. This place, as luck would prove, to be his old friend John Watson's place, shared with a moody detective.

Neither of them minded Rory very much, and in turn, Rory pardoned the many scathing remarks about his intelligence that Sherlock threw his way (Mostly in jealousy about John), and he had a place to sleep, which was always nice.

They had decided to go up, towards Scotland, to try to get away from the virus, and John and Rory would both try to continue Rory's progress in search of some sort of vaccine.

Their first priority was to raid a Tesco's, and gather more tea and beef jerky and such, because what they had was dangerously low, and they needed their tea.

Rory liked the beef jerky, personally. Sherlock huffed at this, and John laughed minutely, lapping up the cold remainder of the tea, and sat back to watch the fireworks of lovable, awkward Rory trying to placate decidedly _un_lovable, arrogant Sherlock.

It wasn't easy, nor comfortable, or particularly warm, but they were together and they had a few defenses against people who weren't really that nice.

Plus, they still had enough tea to last the night.

That's all they needed, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all who read it. Here's the next chapter, or as I like to call it, "Dystopia Tesco."**

**Note: I do not own any of these characters.**

John Watson woke up with a bruise across one side of his face and blood running down his face, pooling in the shell of his ear and dying it a morbid black-red.

He opened his eyes cautiously, finding Sherlock laying spread eagle across the garage floor. His hand, resting about a foot by John's head, twitched slightly, and John smiled at the weird sight.

He checked over his shoulder reflexively to check on Rory, who had been up all night as a lookout, and John's eyes were drawn to a slumped figure by the doorway, turned away from him and Sherlock, cradling his gun fearfully.

"Rory?" He yelled out, voice raspy with sleep. Rory's head snapped back to look at John, and he frowned when he saw the carnage decorating John's forehead.

Rory got up quickly, tossed the gun aside, and grabbed a small red pack hanging on the wall. The medical kit. John stood up slowly, to avoid the head rush, and kicked Sherlock softly in the side to wake him up.

"Wake up, you big idiot. Be the lookout for a second," John said, and Sherlock groaned and peered up at him with sleepy eyes.

"John, make Rory do it," He slurred, drunk with sleep, and turned over, ready to sleep again.

"He did the all-nighter. Go and do it, you big wanker," John teased uneasily, and Sherlock sat up, glaring at John. He noticed the gash on John's forehead, and his glare softened a bit. He got up, grabbed his gun, and stood outside the door with no further word.

"John, you're bleeding," Rory said, the awkwardness around Sherlock dissipating around John. He leaped into action, swabbing his forehead in long strokes with something that stung badly. John bit his lip for relief and Rory nodded sympathetically. He threw the bloodied rag he used to clean his cut into a plastic bag, to be properly disposed later. He grabbed hold of John's head and tilted him closer, surveying the damage silently, and breathing an audible sigh of relief.

"You must have rolled on something sharp," He mused, dropping his tight hold on John's head and went snooping around the garage, shifting some clothes and empty packages of beef jerky before finding a small, pointed rock, which he showed John triumphantly.

"Here's the culprit. You'll be fine," Rory smiled reassuringly at him, tossed the rock over his shoulder, and bent down again to pick through some bandages.

"Rory. Do you think I could be infected?" John said quietly with a sudden thought. This was not an uncommon phrase, nor an unexpected one, but Rory's head went up and his eyes went wide all the same.

The look dissipated quickly, and Rory shook his head confidently, bending his head down to search through the supplies again. When he found the one he wanted, he sprang up, too energetic for the morning after a sleepless night, and twisted the cap off a tube of antibiotics.

"You got that cut maybe 15 minutes ago. You need at least an hour to steep to have any chance of catching the virus," He smiled down at him before dabbing with cold, concise fingers around his cut, tracing the length of it slowly, and grabbing a bandage and a roll of gauze.

"Should I use the gauze or the bandages?" He questioned, and John nodded at the bandage.

Rory nodded and began unwrapping a large bandage from its noisy packaging, and placed it gently on John's forehead, smoothing the edges down with his fingertips.

"Done!" He said loudly, and Sherlock came rushing in, a worried look on his face. He shoved the gun at Rory, and Rory sighed and grabbed the gun from him, placed the medical kit down wordlessly, and leaving Sherlock and John alone to talk inside.

"Sherlock. I'm fine," John said immediately.

"Are you sure? Did Rory put on antibiotics? He probably didn't; that massive idiot. Is it swelling? Well, don't just stand there! Oh, it's turning red. Do Rory disinfect it?" Sherlock accused quickly, hands wandering towards John's bandaged forehead, and John batted them away with a snort.

"He knows what he's doing, Sherlock. He was a nurse. With me," John said, keeping a hand on Sherlock's arm to steady him.

"A nurse? Barely better then a first year medical student," Sherlock snorted, and John shot him down with a look.

"Rory happens to be the best damn nurse I've ever had the chance of meeting. He patched me together half a thousand times. Hell, without him I probably wouldn't be standing here right now. So Sherlock, bugger off," John glared, and Sherlock shrank back a bit.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'll take Rory to Tesco's for a run. Guard," He tossed a fallen machine gun from behind him and shoved it at Sherlock, who took it with a sneer.

"Don't be a child. Rory!" John yelled, startling Sherlock.

Rory's head popped around the door and he yelled back, "Yeah?"

"C'mon, we're going to Tesco's. Sherlock'll guard," He yelled back, grabbing a shotgun from the guns bucket, and jogged over to Rory.

Rory grabbed his gun out of his gun holster, attached at all times to his belt loops, and Sherlock jogged back into the garage, grumbling about something that had displeased him.

John nodded at Rory and they took off down the empty street, gun in hand, fingers pressed lightly on the trigger. They were careful not to shoot, because gunshots made noise and noise attracted things that were not especially pleasant. So they ran, quietly and quickly down the barren streets, to a run-down Tesco's, where Rory stood guard at the door and John ran in, gun high, to make sure there was no abandoned infects, or "stragglers," as Rory called them.

John found nothing but slightly moulding food. He whistled four times, an old Army habit they had gotten into again, and Rory came in, gun still pointed toward the door. He shut the glass door and flipped the lock, a simple wood block they had installed soon after the first few cases hit London.

John grabbed a plastic shopping bag from behind the counter and scampered threw the store, throwing more packages of beef jerky and a couple of tea bags, along with 9 plastic water bottles and a package of slightly musty cookies.

Rory headed for the medical aisle and stuffed some aspirin, antibiotic, disinfectant, and more bandages in his trouser pockets. On second thought, he grabbed some vitamin pills. They sure as hell weren't getting any protein or vitamin C soon.

He moved toward the entrance and whistled four short times, holding the last one for two counts. John appeared from the packaged goods aisle, multiple grocery bags hanging from both elbows, and Rory nodded, unlatching the door and yanking his gun from its holster.

He leaned out cautiously, and stepped outside the doorway, holding and cocking it.

"See anything?" John whispered, one hand on his gun, just in case.

"No. It's clear," Rory whispered back, and waved him out. John was a few steps outside the supermarket door when Rory heard a small, childish whimper resonate from an alley.

He tensed immediately, head swivelling toward the sound. John noticed and tensed up as well, pulling his gun out of his pocket.

"What was that?" He whispered, and Rory shook his head, looking as flabbergasted as he was.

"Is anyone there?" The small voice sounded weakly, and they both ran toward the alley without a second thought, a voice in pain making them react stupidly.

"Are you alright? Are you bleeding?" Rory said in his normal voice, which carried like a shout in the empty streets.

"No, I'm just…" The voice trailed off with a coughing fit and Rory ran a bit faster.

They sped past the corner and Rory motioned for John to stay there, on lookout. He noticed a lump, curled up on itself, laying against the brick wall of the abandoned building next to them. Rory saw no pooling puddle of black, or any syringes for drugs, so he cautiously crawled forward toward the whimpering, not bothering to put his gun back in his holster until he was absolutely sure.

He drew closer until he was about two feet from the lump, when the lump turned to face him.

It was a man about Rory's age, with long-ish brown hair that was matted down with dirt and mud. His probably handsome features were mottled with grime and pain. He wore a dress shirt and suspenders, both of which beyond repair. His eyes were open, although squinting with force of pain, and he was cradling an arm tenderly.

"Did they get you? Did the stragglers get to you?" Rory demanded. He really didn't want to leave this poor man alone to die if he hadn't been infected.

"No, nothing like that. A man, probably insane from either from the non-infectious stage or the stress attacked me and grabbed everything I had. Hit me over the head with a small suitcase and broke my arm and fractured my ankle under a rock." The man informed him quietly, sounding way too concise.

Rory nodded and said quietly, reassuringly, as only Rory could;

"Do you want us to help you?"

The man's eyes lit up and he nodded. Rory stood up and called for John, who came running toward him, grocery bags swinging on his elbow, gun cocked and ready to fire.

"Is he dangerous, Rory?" John demanded, taking in the man silently.

"No blood. He's clean. Broke an arm and possibly fractured his leg. Can we bring him back to camp?" Rory looked at John hopefully, and John sighed.

"What's your name?" He said to the man, and the man straightened up, as much as his leg would allow him too.

"John Smith. You can call me the Doctor, though. Everybody does," He chirped brightly, and Rory smiled cautiously at him before kneeling down and looping an arm around his shoulders, switching his gun from his left hand to his right. He lifted the Doctor up on unsteady legs, and found that he was probably taller than he was by a bit, but nowhere near Sherlock's seemingly never-ending legs.

John eyed the Doctor warily as Rory struggled to drag the limping, yelping Doctor out into the open. John was ahead by about 5 feet, looking for any stragglers or groups of infects to shoot.

"Could it just be easier if you carried me?" Rory heard the man say, and appraised him quickly. He was tall, but skinny. Must not have eaten much since the ration started about a month ago.

He shrugged and picked him up in a wedding carry, making sure his arm cradled safely on his chest and his ankle wrapped weakly around his back to stop it from moving too much.

He was light, as Rory first thought. He probably weighed no more than 100 pounds, judging from the bony ribs that were poking Rory in the chest or the clearly-visible collar and hip bones poking out beneath his shirt.

"When was the last time you ate something?" He whispered into the Doctor's ear, the coldness of his skin making him worry that much more.

"A week ago," He said after much deliberation, biting his lip in thought. Rory glared at him and picked up the pace slightly, determined to get to the camp faster so they could stuff some food into this poor soul.

John was ahead of them at all times, whistling to Rory occasionally to make sure he was okay. He always was, carrying the Doctor in silence, and soon enough, they arrived at their garage.

"Sherlock!" He heard John yell. "We have company. Get the cot. He's injured," He barely heard Sherlock's muttered reply, but he was sure it was about the nature of "company" Rory was currently carrying.

"He's clean. Get him on the cot and make some tea for him. He's shivering," Rory hadn't noticed the shivering, but as he looked down, he could see that the Doctor's teeth were chattering and his arm was having a hard time balancing on his freezing chest.

He walked through the door and went straight for the cot, laying the Doctor down carefully and grabbing a blanket, probably Sherlock's, and tucking it around him. A hand handed him some reheated tea on a chipped platter, and Rory nodded at the hand and gave it to the Doctor, who lapped it up like a puppy.

Rory stared intently at him and silently went up to gather some supplies to help that arm. The Doctor kept talking, sometimes at him, sometimes with him, but Rory sat and listened while bandaging his arm and leg. He didn't ask any personal questions. John and Sherlock watched them, John slaving over the stove to make some tea and oatmeal and Sherlock with his arms wrapped around his knees, curiously silent.

It was that moment when Rory Williams became the Doctor's main caregiver, and best friend in this doomed, plague ridden world, and the Doctor became his.


End file.
